


Santa Claus Is...

by ariannenymerosmartell (somethingmoo)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 03:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7151180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingmoo/pseuds/ariannenymerosmartell





	Santa Claus Is...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crossingwinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/gifts).



It starts innocently enough. 

Catelyn Stark had simply wanted professional holiday pictures of her first grandchild.

_It’ll be for the album_ , _Robb, you have to have pictures of little Rickard’s first Christmas!_ Unwilling as ever to give an outright no to their mother, Robb had convinced her that a mall Santa photo was the exact right way to go, and their mother, though skeptical, had finally given in, under the condition that she be allowed to pick Rickard’s outfit. 

 It had all seemed fair, and frankly Jeyne had seemed relived. Dressing little Rickard was a trial, as the boy seemed to loathe pants as much as his Uncle Theon did, and it was always a blessing to have that one particular task passed off to Catelyn. It would be a quick trip to the mall—Jeyne and Catelyn even scheduled it for the weekend after Thanksgiving, nice and early, when the line wouldn’t wrap-around for ages—no muss, no fuss, cute baby picture for the family’s holiday newsletter. 

But of course, Robb, being Robb, couldn’t leave well enough alone had bitched and moaned, echoing their parents’ long said mantra that Christmas was for family, and while little Rickard could have solo shots, surely he should have pictures with his family as well. His meaning was plain: if he was going to have to take pictures with a mall Santa, then Theon and Jon would have to as well. Only Theon and his Jeyne, and their daughter, little Asha, we’re on a cruise until December 15th, and Jon and Ygritte had taken Small Robb skiing and wouldn’t be back until December 22nd. 

Which is how Arya finds herself standing in a line that wrapped twenty-three times around the center of the mall, on December 23rd, with three increasingly cranky babies, and none of their gods forsakened parents in sight. 

Jeyne was sick, Robb said, and he needed to be home to take care of her. Take little Rickard, Robb said. He loves you too much to give you trouble, and anyway, Theon, and Jeyne, and Jon, and Ygritte will be there to help, Robb said. 

But Theon got called into work, and Jeyne too had come down with a cold, but little Asha really wanted to see Santa, and she so loved her favorite Aunt Arya, she wouldn’t be any trouble at all, and anyway, Jon and Ygritte would be there too. 

But blasted Jon had sprained his ankle, and was, in general, a whiny baby anytime the slightest inconvenience happened to him, and so Ygritte needed to stay home to mock him and take care of him, and Small Robb certainly adored her as much as his father did and so— 

Arya lets her thoughts stop there, because if she let them go further, she’d murder all six of their parents and wouldn’t that be a Christmas Eve headline? _Stark Daughter Loses Mind in Santa Line, Goes on Killing Spree._  

It might even top the _Scandal! Tywin Lannister Sits on Santa Aerys’s Lap!_ headline from a few years ago that Uncle Robert kept framed above his mantle.

The thought makes her smile, and she rocks little Rickard in his stroller, adjusts little Asha on her hip, and gives Small Robb’s hand a squeeze. 

“We’ve really gotta start picking new names,” she says, mostly to herself, since none of the kids, save little Asha are old enough to be conversant. 

“We’ve got too many doubles.” 

Little Rickard, not even one, stares up at her, and happily drools all down the front of the little grey button up had picked for him. 

“Grandma would have done better to find you a raincoat, drool monster,” she tells Rickard fondly. 

“Drool,” little Asha echoes, and promptly does the same, right down the front of her black and gold velvet dress that Theon had insisted on. At this rate, the kids would look like drenched and disheveled rats by the time they got up to Santa.  

Arya was just fine with this. 

“Serves them right,” she tells little Asha. “Stranding me here with you lot. They’ll get a very Arya picture and be happy about it.” 

She’s thinking specifically of the set of family photos she had ruined. 

Just after Bran had been born, her mother had wanted to do one of those ridiculous family portrait sessions, with pictures of Robb and Bran, and Sansa and Arya, posed against backgrounds of clouds, or eggshell, or whatever ridiculous names they were called. When they’d gotten there, there’d been a backlog, and they’d had to wait. Just five minutes, they’d had to wait. Dad had put her down, and she’d found her way to a potted plant, and in five minutes had streaked her face with dirt and had twigs in her hair. Sansa had refused to take any pictures with her, and started crying, and Robb had been laughing too hard to focus. The one picture they’d managed had Sansa bright red from crying, Robb a blur from laughing, Catelyn frowning, Bran asleep, Ned grimacing, and her, front and center, with the biggest grin on her face. 

The picture was locked in the attic, never to be displayed. 

“I think it’s time for another one, don’t you?” she asks little Asha, nuzzling the little girl’s nose, and relishing the giggle she gets in return. She squeezes Small Robb’s hand, and he beams up at her. He’s the only one who didn’t mind standing on the line, and for that Arya was grateful. 

The feeling lasts all of ten seconds, before she hears a long, loud groan traveling down the line. 

“That didn’t sound good,” she says to the young couple in front of her, swinging a four-year old between them. 

“Apparently, Santas have to change shifts,” the man answers. “And the next one is running late. There’s going to be an extra ten minute wait.” 

“Oh, and extra ten minutes,” Arya said, drily. “More like an extra ten years off my life.” 

The woman laughed, but it was a joyless sound, and Arya could tell she was just barely holding it together. 

The line had barely moved at all the last half hour. This wasn’t good. 

As if on cue, little Rickard started crying, sharp and angry, his designated, “ _I-am-starving-and-will-wake-dogs-if-I-am-not-fed-this-instant_ ” cry, which set off Asha in her arms. Standing next to her, the cries of his cousins seemed to awaken Small Robb to discomfort of standing still for so long, and he flopped down onto the floor, screeching in anguish, little face turning beet red, dust gathering all over his little baby jeans. 

“Fuck,” Arya said, struggling to pull Rickard’s bottle from the baby bag slung around her shoulder without dropping Asha. 

“Fuuuuuuuuuccccckkkkkkkkk,” the little girl screamed, echoing Arya, and kicking her rhythmically in the stomach. 

Several parents turned to glare at her, and Arya, unperturbed, glared right back.  

“Shameful,” said an older, grandmotherly type a few rows up and over, clapping her hands over her grandson’s ears. 

Her grandson was pale, and round, and had blond hair so thickly gelled, it looked painted on. 

“In a few years, that’s what they’ll be calling you,” she mutters, still struggling with the bottle. She’d finally begun to work it free when Asha gave another kick and sent it flying. At her feet, Small Robb wailed anew. 

She couldn’t leave the line. She couldn’t leave the children. At the moment, she wanted nothing more than to flop down on the floor with Robb, and yell “Fuck!” at the top of her lungs with Asha. 

“I think this is yours,” she hears a voice say from behind her, and she turns to face a man with the brightest blue eyes she’s ever seen, holding out Rickard’s bottle. 

She stares at him, wordless. 

“It didn’t open, so it’s clean, so you can give it to… one of them,” he says, eyeing the three babies she’s surrounded by. 

She snaps out of her stupor long enough to grab the bottle, yank off the top, and shove it into Rickard’s mouth. The baby stops crying immediately, and, stunned by the sudden drop in volume, Asha did too. On the floor, Small Robb gave one last wail, and looked up at Arya, as if confused. 

“Thank you,” she says the man, tugging Small Robb up off the floor. He stands, stomps his feet, and then sits back down. Arya decided not to push her luck, unconcerned by the dust on his pants. It looks like snow, Arya thinks tiredly, and gods, she should just take a picture of the three of them on her phone and call it a day. 

The man smiles at her. 

“You’re a good mom for standing in line so patiently with three kids,” he says to her, and Arya decides he must have been out of earshot when Asha had screamed fuck. 

“I’m a good aunt,” she corrects him. “None of the little beastlings are mine.”  

She thinks she might be imagining it, that hours of standing on a slow-moving line with no one to talk to have finally driven her insane, but she thinks she sees the slightest look of relief cross the man’s face. 

“Beastlings?” He asks, chuckling a little. “That’s hardly a nice thing to call them.” 

 Arya scowls at him. Clearly, he’s never been alone with one infant, let alone three. 

“You’ve never been alone with the little buggers,” she says to him, matter-of-factly. 

“Bugger,” Asha repeats, as if to prove her point. 

The man chuckles again. “You’re giving this one quite an impressive vocabulary. I heard her scream my favorite-four letter word all the way from the entrance.” 

Arya doesn’t even bother to try to look shame-faced. 

“She’ll learn it eventually anyway,” she says. “In any case, I’m going to die with them on this line, so it can’t really scar them for life, now can it?” 

He opens his mouth to say something else, when a waif-like creature dressed as an elf screams, _Gendry, there you are, hurry up_! and tugs him away. 

He turns back to her, eyes locking with her, and smiles, and whispers something to the waif-elf, who rolls her eyes, and continues dragging him away, without further words. 

_Shame_ , Arya thinks. _If I’m going to die on this line, eye-candy would be nice._

Rickard finishes his bottle, and burps cheerfully, only spitting up a little over his sweater, all of the tears from before forgotten. He smiles up at Arya, showing all four of his teeth, and she smiles back at him in return. In her arms though, Asha is screwing up her face, getting ready to wail again, when the waif-elf comes back to her in the line. 

“Come with me, miss,” the elf says, and Arya wonders if someone complained about her cursing. 

A panicky feeling rises in her. As much as she’s bitched and complained, they can’t stoop three babies under the age of three from seeing Santa, can they? She’s about to start arguing, when the waif-like elf whispers, “Hush. Don’t draw attention or people will complain.” 

Curious, and a little anxious, she gets Small Robb up off the floor, tightens her grip on little Asha, and pushes Rickard’s stroller behind the elf, who takes her around and around, until they’re at the very back of the photo booth. A Santa has resumed his seat, and the line is moving again, though the parents still look surly and murderous. 

“You’ll go with your kids next,” she tells Arya. 

She pauses a moment, looking at the three kids. “Might want to dust them off a little,” she says, looking at Small Robb’s pants, and the spit-up on little Rickard’s shirt. 

Arya just stares at her. 

“What about the line?” she asks, imagining another groan reaching all the way to the back. 

“Leave it to me,” the waif-elf says, and beckons her to follow. 

They walk, from the back, into the photo area, and immediately complaints from the line begin. A big, burly man near the front nearly topples the rope that binds off the crowd from the photo area. 

“What the hell’s the meaning of this,” he roars, and little Asha turns toward his voice. 

“Hell,” she says, and Arya can’t help but nod in agreement. 

“VIP Guest,” the elf says, in a high-pitched squeaky voice Arya hadn’t heard her use before. “We’ll continue on with the line after.” 

“Like hell you will!” Burly roars again, and a few parents murmur in agreement. “I don’t care how very important she is, she can bloody well wait in line like the rest of us!” 

“No can do,” says the elf, squeakily. “Orders from the Big Man,” she jerks her head at the mall Santa on the throne, who seems oblivious to the happenings on the line. 

This confuses Arya. Why the hell would the mall Santa have wanted them, of all the families in the line, to come up? Before she can ponder it anymore, Burly roars again, right in the elf’s face, practically frothing at the mouth, spittle flying with every word. 

“The Big Man clearly just wants that piece of ass on his lap and I’ll be damned if some perv Santa is going to make me wait a moment longer!” 

Rather than looking angry, this makes the elf smile. 

“Right you are, sir,” she says, brightly. “Guards!” 

Four uniformed security guards appear, almost instantly, and begin herding the man and his family off the line. 

“What is the meaning of this?” the man roars, as two guards flank him and restrain his arms. 

“We don’t take kindly to such language in Santa’s Village,” the elf says, brightly. “Ta, ta, and Happy Holidays!” she adds when their child starts to cry and hit her father and mother. 

“Go on then,” the elf says, turning back to Arya. 

Santa holds out his arms, and wordlessly Arya transfers little Asha into them. Small Robb toddles over next, and while Arya lifts little Rickard out of his stroller, Santa has arranged them both on his left leg, leaving his right open for—  

“Oh no,” Arya says, seeing what’s about to happen, realizing that Burly might have been right about perv Santa. 

“I’m not sitting on you.” 

 The elf rolls her eyes again. 

“Kids cry less when an adult they know is in the picture. You really want to set your symphony off again?” the elf asks, and Arya can see Asha squirming already, jostling Small Robb. 

Sighing, she sits gingerly on Santa’s other leg, and balances little Rickard in her lap, sitting him up, and tickling him a little so he’ll smile right the first time. 

“I’ll kill you if you so much as breathe on me,” she hisses, turning slightly to the Santa, and feeling shocked when a familiar blue eye winks at her. 

“You only get four pictures,” he says, chuckling. “And they happen quickly so wipe that look off your face.” 

The first picture they take has her mouth open in shock. 

The second one has Small Robb rubbing his eye, Rickon blowing a spit bubble, and Asha sticking her tongue out. 

In the third, little Asha’s managed to lift her dress over her head, showing off her fake denim diaper. 

In the fourth one, it looks like all three kids are holding up the middle finger. 

The photographer, a pudgy elf snacking on a cookie, asks if she wants a do over. 

“Yes,” she says, agreeing to the damn thirty dollar do-over, only because she knows her mother won’t hesitate to murder her if she didn’t bring back at least one good one. 

In the last minute she has a stroke of brilliance. 

In the fifth one, all five of them, including Santa have their tongues sticking out.

Arya takes multiple copies of all five. 

As she’s paying, the Santa winks at her, and she wants to say something to him, to thank him, maybe, but the line is already moving on. 

As she’s about to leave, she hears the Santa say, “I’m here ‘till midnight,” to a lost-looking little boy, and Arya knows he meant that for her ears. 

She smiles. 

She takes all the kids home to Winterfell, where their parents have already been there, and are drinking wine. She would be upset, but the photos are burning a hole in her bag, and really, how can she be mad when baby middle fingers exists?  

The reaction is even better than she expected. 

Catelyn sighs, but shakes her head, laughing, and says that _maybe we shouldn’t have sent Arya alone,_ and smiles fondly, fingering the edge of the fifth photo with the tongues hanging out. It’s not proper at all, but it is adorable.  

Theon is too busy cowing over the middle finger photo, taking a picture of it on his phone and texting it to his sister. 

“Just like her aunts,” he says, a little proudly, thinking of Arya and the older Asha. 

Sansa is giggling over the one with little Asha’s lifted dress. 

“Just like her dad, that one,” Sansa says, patting Jeyne consolingly on her shoulder, while Robb and his Jeyne argue with Jon and Ygritte over whose son is more innocent-looking in the photos, dust on Small Robb’s pants completely ignored. 

Arya’s just glad it’s “innocent-looking” and not innocent. 

Her dad smiles at her. 

“Missing a few twigs in the hair and dirt on the face, but it’ll do,” he whispers to her, low, where none of the others can hear, grey eyes sparkling. 

She grins at him in return and hugs him tightly. “I knew that wasn’t a grimace of anger! You were holding back laughter!”

“Appearances and all,” Ned Stark says with a grin, and ruffles her hair for good measure. “Have a drink to those memories with your dad?” 

“I’ve got to go back to the mall, actually,” Arya says, and her dad simply raises an eyebrow. 

“At 11:30 at night on December 23rd?” he asks, skeptically. 

“Charity thing,” she says hastily, and though it’s clear he doesn’t believe her, he motions to the door in a _go-on-then_ manner. 

“I’ll cover for you,” he whispers conspiratorially, “if you do the dishes after Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow.” 

She grins at him, and backs out of the house silently, praying that it’ll take Santa, which is a weird thing to think, a long time to get out of that costume.  

She makes it to the mall at 12:05 and the bored looking security guard doesn’t even seemed phased by her jog through the doors. 

“Is Santa still here?” she asks, and feels like an ass immediately, because she is twenty-fucking-three years old and now this man is going to think she’s insane.  

“Yes, he is,” says a voice, off to the side. 

There’s Santa, sans beard and hat, still in his red suit. His blue eyes are bright, and his inky hair, under the hat all day, unruly. All things considered, he’s pretty fucking gorgeous. 

The security guard nods at him. “Making my rounds, G, you lock up here.” 

G, which stands for Gendry she remembers the elf calling him that, nods. 

“Sure thing, Anguy,” he says and takes another set of keys from the guard’s podium and locks the front door. 

“You can get outside from our entrance,” he says, a little sheepishly. “Actually I can open it again and—“ 

“Thank you,” she says, cutting him off. “I mean, I came back to thank you. You didn’t need to cut the line for us.” 

He smiles at her and she feels her heartbeat speeds up, just a little.  


“Well, I figured you did your good deed for the day wrangling your beastlings,” he says grinning at her. “I figured I should do mine.” 

She laughs at that. “Because letting a million little kids sit on your lap, and cry, and scream about what they want for Christmas isn’t a good enough deed?”  

“Nah,” Gendry says, smirking. “Because in my head I’m calling them words much worse than beastling.” 

She grins at him and he grins at her, and they stand there like that, grinning at each other like idiots, just long enough for it to become uncomfortable. 

“I’m Arya,” she says, as a way to break the silence. 

“Gendry,” he says, even though she clearly knows that, and her brain is working overtime to find something clever to say when what comes flying out is: 

“Do you like being Santa?” 

It’s so lame and cringe inducing she almost expects to look up and see him unlocking the door to usher her out again. Instead, when she meets his eyes, he’s smiling again. 

“It’s not all bad,” he says nonchalantly. “Sometimes you get really beautiful girls to sit on your lap and whisper that they’ll kill you.”

He grins at her, and Arya is seized by the sudden mad desire to kiss him. So she does. 

He’s startled at first, but responds quickly and enthusiastically, one arm wrapping around her waist the other coming up to cup her cheek. It’s remarkable sweet and tender, especially for such a big guy dressed as Santa Claus. 

The reality of the situation hits her and she pulls away laughing. 

_I saw Arya kissing Santa Claus_ , she thinks to herself, unable to wipe the smile from her face. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, though she isn’t. It’s the polite thing to say after surprising someone with a kiss, however. “I shouldn’t have done that.” 

“Please don’t apologize,” Gendry says, shaking his head. “And yes, you totally should have. In fact, if you don’t do it again, I’m going to have to.” 

It’s ridiculous, she knows. After all, she’s just met him, really met him, but she can’t seem to resist. She lets him close the gap and kiss her again, this time both of his hands are on her face, while hers rest against his chest. His muscular chest, she notes, and swipes his bottom lip with her tongue. He pulls away from her, and his bright blue eyes are darker now. 

“It’s not nice to tease Santa,” he says, pitching his timbre deeper. 

She grins at him. It should be weird, but it’s not. 

“I haven’t even really started to tease Santa,” she says, and tugs him back by the suit, pressing herself against him and _oh_. 

“But it appears whatever I’m doing is working,” she murmurs against his lips, and he tugs her hair, just this side of hard. 

“Naughty list,” he hisses, but doesn’t let go of her. His hands are exploring her back, running through her hair, and over her arms, hovering just barely over more interesting places. 

“If I’m going to make the naughty list,” she tells him, pushing against his chest, in the direction of the bathrooms, “I want to earn it.” 

She pushes him into the ladies room, and bars the door from the side with a mop. 

Gendry seems a little surprised by this turn of events, but she doesn’t break her stride, pushing him against the sink, and dropping to her knees. 

“A-Arya,” he stammers out, and she smiles up at him. 

“Like I said,” she smiles. “Haven’t even begun to tease.” 

She finds the front zip of the suit easily enough, and pulls down. He’s got just boxers and a white t-shirt on underneath. His cock is hard and leaking pre-cum already, sticking out from the hole in his boxers. She licks the tip, just barely, and Gendry groans and buckles against the sink. She does it again, naturally, enjoying every sound he makes. She brings one hand up to stroke the length of him before she takes the head into her mouth, swirling her tongue around, enjoying the bitter and salty taste. Above her, Gendry’s biting his fist to stop himself from making a sound. 

_That won’t do_ , Arya thinks, and swallows as much of his length as she can, because it’s quite a lot of length, and Gendry moans so loudly it echoes off the tiles. 

“Much better,” she tells him, intending to pull off for just a second to catch her breath, but Gendry pulls her up and kisses her deeply, his tongue pushing into her mouth. 

“You’re incredible,” he says, pupils blown, and Arya kisses him again. 

“Then let me finish what I started,” she says, kissing him again. 

“But I want—“ Gendry begins to interrupt, but she shushes him with another kiss. 

“Later,” she says, with a little smirk, and Gendry grabs her and kisses her again, short, but firm, a promise. 

She gets back to her knees, takes him back into her mouth, cupping his balls in his left hand, and stroking him gently with her right. His hands are smoothing over hair, and he’s muttering nonsense words above her, mostly sinking into wordless groans. 

“Gonna—“ he chokes out, not long after, and Arya intended to swallow, she really did, but a thought crosses her mind, and she pulls off choking with laughter, and his come splatters on the leg of his bright red suit. 

He frowns looking down at it, and then concerned at Arya howling with laughter on the floor. 

“What?” he asks, a little defensively, and Arya laughs harder. 

He’s still partially clothed in the suit, dick softening, come stains on the leg of the costume. 

“Santa—Claus—is—coming,” she wheezes out and Gendry stares at her incredulously. 

“You just sucked the life out of my dick,” he says, staring at her. “And now you’re laughing yourself stupid over what has to be the worst pun in the world.”  

“Yep,” Arya chokes out and Gendry continues staring, and then bursts into laughter. 

“I might be half in love with you,” he says, helping her up. 

She grins at him, and he at her, and he kisses her again. “Sorry about the suit,” she says, when they’ve broken apart, motioning to the drying stains. 

Gendry shrugs. “They dry clean them every night, it’s fine.” He points to a duffle in the corner. “Let me change and we’ll get out of here.” 

He takes a minute to right himself, throwing on jeans and a sweater, and shoving the suit into the bag. 

She fixes her face in the mirror, and removes the mop so they can leave. Once outside, he leaves the bag with the stained suit at the guard desk. 

“Anguy will drop it off,” he says, right as the guard strolls up. 

“Don’t be out too late, Santa,” Anguy says, winking at Arya. “You’ve got a lot of presents to give tomorrow.” 

“I’ve got a lot to give tonight,” Gendry answers, straight-faced without missing a beat, and Anguy opens the front door again and ushers them out to Arya’s car. 

“Any plans for the rest of the night? Or can I buy you a cup of coffee?” Gendry asks sheepishly, as though she’d say no. 

“I’d love a coffee,” and smiles when he takes her hand. 

As they walk to her car, she beams up at him, mischief forming in her mind.

“I’m going to need it. I plan to be up all night earning my place on the naughty list.” 

Gendry grins at her. It’s the shit-eating kind of grin that that been on her face when she showed the kids’ photos to her family. 

“Looks like Santa Claus is coming more than once tonight.”


End file.
